! ! Sunlight On White Paint. For The New Year.

The house across the way is newly painted white. Right now, that’s all my being seems to need: this winter morning, sharp, cold, bright and clear, the morning sunlight pours across white paint; contains a thousand messages, in me interpreted.. or simply left to be.. this moment, that’s as much as being craves: this morning’s glory; and I, born for praise.. even as I write, I watch the sun’s white paint brush move across the house’s front and tell the eye of reason that this world is turning, basking, in this morning sun; already sparkling on the Bondi waves as if the world had just been washed anew; cast early dawn’s pearl light on Taj Mahal as if the sun itself could never tire of beauty; Italian villa forecourts just hosed down, the air all fresh to meet the warming day; the gardens of Carmel, eight hours from now, will paint their flowers fresh with mist and dew; as every carefree holiday yourself recall, as proof eternal of pure soul.. and here - the witness of my silent mind needs nothing, need go nowhere else to find its very self, this moment without taint: immortal sunlight shining on white paint.